


Ross Kemp: On Choirs Saga, Part 1

by BolgMitchell808



Category: celebrities and real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BolgMitchell808/pseuds/BolgMitchell808
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Ross Kemp: On Choirs Saga, Part 1

*** disclaimer! Completely fictional. There’s a little bit of swearing here but not loads ***

  
Ross Kemp, On Choirs Saga

  
Part 1: The Beginning.

A man of honour and truth strides furiously through the meek Shrewsbury streets on a drizzly autumn morning. Clad in trademark high-waisted stonewashed jeans, an uncompromisingly authoritative bomber jacket and a steaming bald head; Ross Kemp surveys the landscape around him, his face grimacing with utter disgust. Shrewsbury town. Let it be known, Ross Kemp  _ hates  _ drugs. But what does he hate more?

That’s right. Elderly choirs.

Today he sets out to discover more about this sinister vocation lurking among society’s undergrowth, and to learn about what could possibly drive anyone to such extreme behaviour.

-

Doris, the leader of the local elderly choir group, waits nearby the imposing and serious-looking statue of a seated Charles Darwin to greet the equally serious-looking and well-respected journalist and scholar of  _hard barstards_ . Diminutive and frail with her headscarf and floral anorak, he’s keen to stamp his authority in front of the camera crew and make sure she knows he’s not even remotely intimidated.

“Orwight, slag.” He barks.

“Err... hello Ross,” utters a confused, wavering voice as she stretches out her arthritis-riddled, seventy-four year old hand for a polite shake. He does not reciprocate. “Did you just call me a.... a  slag ?”

“Look there’s no need to get aggressive. I can and  _ will  _ defend myself if I feel threatened by you,” he says, standing his ground.

“I.. I’m not. I’m sorry I’m terribly confused. Are you here for the choir documentary?”

“Just keep those filthy hands away from me. You need to tell me exactly what led you to such a depraved way of life.” She seems bewildered. He sighs with impatience.

“Well... er... well I started at the choir around 16 years ago, my husband Harold - god rest his soul, he’d been a data analyst for a number of market research companies over the years, you see - well he had gotten rather concerned about how bored I seemed after around a decade of retirement....” Tumbleweeds of tedious boredom roll by in Ross’ mind. “So he made a few enquiries on my behalf with a number of local acquaintances and found a group that were looking for a few extra bodies to....” 

“Oh my god! So there’s an underground network?!” Ross interrupts Doris. He had been boiling exponentially under the weight of her droning monologue until finally his inner thermostat completely melts down - along with his patience. Veins pulse in his temple. “You people disgust me! Can you get me in to meet some of these fixers?” Smelling a opportunity to infiltrate deeper into this seedy underworld of larynx rumblers, he attempts to negotiate his way into Doris’ network.

“Yes I can, Ross.” She becomes visibly cautious, looking left. Then right. Then back at him. “I can lead you to them. But they’re very cagey and will only meet under certain conditions.”

“Fack sake, like wot?!”

“No camera’s Ross. They made me promise,” she pleads with him.

“Fack off Doris, you think I’m coming here to tell these pricks the hard, uncomfortable truth,” pointing to the cameras, “and not get the money shot on tape, you’re having a giraffe mate!”

“But Ross!” she pleads.

“Look, I’m not taking any more of your shit Doris. You either take me to your crew or I will be forced to defend myself.” A confused tension suddenly becomes apparent looking the frame of the camera lens. Somehow the situation has escalated and a new level of danger has emerged, unbeknownst initially to Ross and his team.

They are suddenly surrounded by the elderly choir, armed with AK-47s, M16 assault rifles and grenades. All of whom are armoured with flak jackets and bulletproof vests whilst sporting professionally crafted prosthetic Steve McFadden masks. Doris’ demeanour has changed. Ross and his team hold their hands up.

“Don’t try pulling any of that ‘are you gonna shoot me’ bollocks that worked on the South American cartels, Sargent Shitstain. Alfred over here won’t hesitate like they did. He’ll put a hole in your head quicker than you can piss yourself, like you did in Afghanistan.”

They start to sing the theme tune to Eastenders. Badly. Somehow, he recognises the voices of the armed choir that surround him. One by one they remove the Steve McFadden masks to reveal themselves to be former members of the Eastenders cast. 

Dirty Den, Nick Cotton, Gary & Minty, Mark Fowler, Roy Evans, Barry Evans, Patrick and Gus. The last to take off the Steve McFadden mask reveals...

Steve McFadden.

Ross gasps in shock to see his former on-screen brother turn against him.

“Not you too!” He cries. “We had some good scenes together! Remember when we did that dance?!”

“Soz,” he utters, nonchalantly. “There’s no honour among really bald fake hard men. You know this as much as I do.”

“As good as you were at playing a raging alcoholic, I don’t think I can forgive you for this. Now I know the deep emotional torment Grant  really felt when he found out Phil shagged Sharon. You’re lucky we’re outside Shrewsbury library and not in a garage. You remember how that ended for Phil?” Ross points his heartbroken sausage finger at him aggressively.

“None of that was real, Ross.” Steve McFadden shrugs, quite rightly dismissing any impact Ross Kemp was trying to make with his unnecessary and convoluted comparisons. Ross begins to sob. Tears roll down his face and snot covers his top lip. He tastes a bit of it by accident, and subsequently rediscovers his rage.

Ross turns to Doris. “NEITHER ROSS KEMP NOR GRANT MITCHELL EVER NEGOTIATE WITH TERRORISTS! I PUT THE KEMP IN KEMPO!” Out of nowhere he pulls out a Japanese wooden stick from the sleeve of his bomber jacket and attempts to cut down Doris. She deftly moves out of the way with surprising agility, dodging his telegraphed move. Ross’ momentum carries him clumsily to the floor. It becomes evident that Doris is also wearing a very well crafted prosthetic mask. As she slowly peels it away from the neck, the true identity of the choir leader is revealed. Ross Kemp looks up in awe.

“Of course it’s you,” he says with disbelief, as the figure raises a Glock pistol, pointing the barrel directly at his face at point blank range.

The last thing Ross Kemp sees before what he anticipates to be his inevitable annihilation are the grinning features of a man so horrifying and an actor so poor that he can appear in only one soap television show....

Steve McDonald.

“Welcome to Coup-enation Street, bitch!”

Duh duh duh-duh-duh dudaduda!

To be continued....


End file.
